Based on the evidence that is The Break-In, we may assume that do-it-all filmmaker Justin Doescher saw Paranormal Activity — and perhaps even one or more of its sequels — and said aloud to himself, “Heck, I can do that!”

But he cannot. The Break-In is a rank-amateur, found-footage thriller that deserves to stay lost.

Built upon the flimsy-even-for-fiction premise that Jeff Anderson (Doescher, who also wrote, directed and produced) has a cool new phone and feels the need to record his every move, the movie presents itself as a week’s worth of police evidence. With a rash of recent burglaries plaguing the neighborhood, Jeff installs a security system to better protect his fiancée, Melissa (Maggie Binkley), and their unborn child. Cameras keep tabs on exactly four rooms: the kitchen, the bedroom, the living room and the “lounge room” (known to the rest of the civilized world as “a lounge”).

Whenever the movie’s POV shifts away from Jeff and his goddamn phone (not often enough) and to these security cams, the screen denotes which room we’re looking at, presumably in case viewers are unable to process obvious visual cues that a bed indicates a bedroom; a refrigerator means a kitchen; and so on. But mostly, The Break-In is Jeff yammering away as he eats dinner, shops for a crib, takes out the recycling — you know, the special moments to preserve for Baby!

Whether he is by himself or with “my boy”/best friend/next-door neighbor/fellow athletics-obsessed meathead man-child Steve (J.P. Veizaga, 10 Rules for Sleeping Around); with Melissa, who applies glitter to her eyelids, yet works as a teacher and not a stripper; or with the buzz-cut Det. Garcia (Ted Fernandez, at once the standout performer and the screen’s least convincing police detective), Jeff records it all.

The way in which Doescher tells his story is maddening: He speaks all the exposition, as if he were reading stage directions from a script. Despite the writer’s axiom of “show, don’t tell,” Doescher figures, “Hey, why not both?” In essence, he narrates actions that need no narration, shares information that needs no sharing and, most damning, externalizes his internal thoughts, as if he does not trust his audience to know that, for example, seeing Melissa stretching in workout clothes and sunglasses on the front porch suggests that a run either has happened or is about to happen.

And to say anything “happens” in the no-budget microindie is being awfully kind. On occasion, we get a glimpse of some mysterious figure in the corner of the frame or far in the background, yet what all that leads up is no mystery: It’s right there in the title! How a found-footage project possibly could capture a dream sequence, however, there’s your mystery.

Many a found-footage film falls flat, but The Break-In usurps the likes of The Gallows and 8213: Gacy House as the subgenre’s worst. If a sports bar could make a movie, the result would be The Break-In. And yet it’s all out of cheese fries, so what’s the point? —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

To call Cyclone by that title is disingenuous on the part of René Cardona Jr., considering that weather event takes up little more than his film’s opening. Then again, what was Cardona (Guyana: Cult of the Damned) if not a second-generation shameless opportunist? Of course he would go with Cyclone! When you’re marketing a Mexploitation action-thriller, that name puts butts in seats; The Glass-Bottom Boat does not.

One year before venturing into The Bermuda Triangle, Cardona set sail with Cyclone, a veritable companion piece largely taking place aboard a sightseeing boat full of Hollywood has-beens (as was Tinseltown’s Towering wont), including Killer Cop’s Arthur Kennedy as a priest; Baby Doll’s Carroll Baker as a spoiled, rich lady traveling with a tiny dog; and, just prior to securing that long-running TV gig on Hart to Hart, Lionel Stander as … well, as whatever an ape and a Troll Doll might resemble after drunkenly stumbling into David Cronenberg’s Brundlefly machine.

Anyway, about that fierce, fake-looking tropical storm: It’s over and done with rather quickly, all in service of a survival story that strands the aforementioned ship of fools (read: tourists) in the middle of the ocean and under the ever-sweltering sun with next to no supplies. Just because most of the movie is stuck on the high seas does not mean it’s stuck in a rut. Quite the opposite, the flick gets “gooder” as hope of rescue dwindles. How else were Cardona and co-writer Carlos Valdemar (Vacation of Terror) supposed to get to the cannibalism? Or the human buffet for the circling sharks? Or the (awfully realistic-looking) murder of Baker’s prized pooch when she breaks the ration rules by attempting to give it drinkable water?

Oh, you wanted restraint? Hey, at least he didn’t kill the baby that’s born amid all the suffering and despair. The way the just-birthed (but somehow placenta-free) infant gets passed in a circle, from hungry stranger to hungry stranger, you’ll half-expect Cardona to go there … and be fully disappointed when he doesn’t. And yet, the answer to the question, “Is this Cardona film worth watching?” is the same answer to the question, “Is Hugo Stiglitz in it?” For enthusiasts of the disaster genre — particularly those who prefer their entries served up clinically insane — Cyclone is a time-suck definitely worth the sacrifice. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Life at the Death Valley Insect Ranch — or Worm Ranch, depending on which sub-Kinko’s sign you read — is pretty sweet for heterosexual live-in pals Jason and Ralph. Respectively played by Sole Survivor’s Al Valletta and Pets’ Mike Cartel (also this film’s writer/director/editor), the guys are enjoying a day of drinking beer, shooting guns and wearing denim when they see something unusual in the distance. Moseying over to investigate, they discover a freshly dug grave containing a beautiful blonde woman nude in a coffin, but still possessing a pulse. (If only she could lend that to the script.)

Because Ralph and Jason are stand-up guys, they aim to do the right thing; unfortunately, before they get the chance, they are kidnapped by a gang of women and held against their will at the ladies’ secluded compound. With names like Torchy, Pepper and Vampire, these tough gals would radiate the fight-’em-or-fuck-’em nature of the classic Russ Meyer vixen, if Cartel had given them personalities, not to mention distinguishing traits beyond the obvious “the fat one.” Forcing the assistance of Jason and Ralph, the abductors plot revenge for their buried-alive sister via stealing a suitcase of plutonium from their enemies’ carefully guarded warehouse.

Let me be clear: Despite that case and its radioactive contents, Runaway Nightmare is no Kiss Me Deadly. Whereas Robert Aldrich’s 1955 noir classic concerned private detective Mike Hammer, this indie centers around two guys as dumb as a box of hammers.

Apparently considering himself quite the wisecracker, Cartel wrote himself a stream of one-liners neither humorous nor appropriate for the situation or established tone. If viewers do laugh, it will be for inadvertent reasons — namely, painful silences and lines delivered so awkwardly, they barely resemble how we as humans speak. A perfect example of Nightmare‘s mix of debilitated pacing and stunted attempts at comic relief can be found in a brief exchange between Ralph and one of his captors:

Woman: “Hey, I’m trying to communicate! I’m into sunshine, awareness, good karma, vibes and witchcraft.”
Ralph: “Well … we do have a lot in common.”
Woman: “I’d like to mix our blood.”

All that bit lacks is Jo Anne Worley popping through a trapdoor just long enough to mug at the camera and say, “Sock it to me!”

Suspense? Only if you care how high the score will go on a pinball machine played midway through the picture. Cartel takes his setup — one of “Dear Penthouse Forum, I never thought it would happen to me …” — to nowhere particularly intriguing, yet the movie finishes as mildly likable for its substantial deficiencies. It’s like a shaggy dog you wouldn’t mind having around, if only it were trained to stop licking your skin and dirty-pawing at your just-pressed pants. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

Like a lo-fi take on Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation, Joseph Sims-Dennett’s Observance puts the troubled Parker (Lindsay Farris, Primal) behind the telephoto lens of a camera perched in an abandoned apartment wallpapered in Asian newspapers. For reasons unknown even to him, he’s been hired to spy on Tenneal (Stephanie King, TV’s The Code), whose home sits opposite.

Grief-stricken and anxious for distraction, Parker can’t help but poke at the scab and wonder what’s up, and a peek into her past sends him — and the story — down uncharted territory. Clearly, what’s going on across the street is not as important as what’s going on inside his own head. Without revealing too much, Sims-Dennett (Bad Behaviour) starts channeling David Lynch, and Lynch begets another David, as in Cronenberg. You’ll never look at tar the same again.

Well-acted and shot with a handheld grip, the purposely vague Australian thriller can be as confounding as it is intriguing, to those unaccustomed to its paranoid bent. To want a little less Conservation and a little more action from Observance is missing the film’s point and denying oneself the rewarding pleasures of its slow burn. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

In the curious case of Corpse Mania, its iconic Shaw Brothers shield logo may as well stand for “Sex Bizarro.” Necrophilia tends to bear that rep.

Residents of a street in Guangzhou notice that ever since that mysterious man Li Zhengyuan (Erik Chan Ka Kei, Human Lanterns) moved in, the streets are heavy with a “fetid odor.” Perhaps it has to do with the only piece of luggage he brought … assuming, of course, that a woman’s dead body counts as luggage. Nosy neighbors take a peek, only to find that nude corpse in bed, rotting with decay and covered head-to-toe in maggots.

It seems that Li has a history with this sort of thing, having purchased Hongmei (Jenny Liang, Hex vs. Witchcraft), a deathly ill prostitute, from the popular whorehouse run by Madam Lan (Tanny Ni Tien, Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold) in the nearby village of Foshan. When Hongmei soon perished, a horny Li had his way with her. Ah, young love!

Clad in standard Invisible Man garb — hat, sunglasses, scarf wrapped around the face — Li is investigated by the police. The body horror of Corpse Mania gives way to a slasher subplot, then ultimately a murder mystery. Director Kuei Chih-Hung (The Killer Snakes) co-wrote the script, which concludes in an info-dump of exposition unloaded with the force of a post-Mexico excursion bout of diarrhea. Good for one watch, it doesn’t hold the repeat value of some of the Shaws’ other horror hybrids. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.